Daze in Which We Hurt But Couldn't See
by SleepyBard
Summary: Days in the lives of the Winchesters.


**Title**: Daze in Which We Hurt But Couldn't See  
**Chapter**: 1/1  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Pairing:** Gen  
**Warning:** Tragedy.  
**Summary:**: _Days in the lives of the Winchester._  
**Disclaimer:** Not mine.

* * *

This is the day Sam Winchester is born.

.::~*++*~::.

On this day, a mother, Mary Winchester, feels little pangs of emotion, unrecognized and unidentified, attack her gut as she holds her beloved boy. _Samuel_, she thinks, imagining his warm, bright chocolate eyes. She cradles him closely to her breast, smiling at his sleeping face, so peaceful, so calm; nothing like the way he had looked a few hours ago.

The door opens but she doesn't look up or away from Sam's small face as her husband takes the seat next to the bed.

They sit in silence for a moment, Mary looking at Sam and John looking at Mary. Finally, she tears her eyes away, content for the moment and looks up to see Dean, his round face containing a frown as he pressed his head against the window looking into the room, not allowed to come inside. Mary and Dean look at each other for a long, drawn out moment. She smiles tentatively, feeling ridiculous that she feels so awkward looking at her own son. But despite the happy look she tries giving him, Dean's face doesn't change from the frown it holds.

At four years old, Dean Winchester already has an air of experience around him that no four year old should have. In the years the three of them had lived together, the Winchester family had led a life of constant moving around and instability, due to Mary's job always taking her away from her family and John's work taking his family everywhere. Still, they had lived a happy life so far; Dean had grown up having two parents who loved him despite financial hardships and his parents knew how much Dean appreciated everything they did for him.

For a moment though, Mary can't help but wonder how the addition of Sam into the family would change their lives. Was this too much to ask of Dean, to ask him to have to expand his life to take care and love someone new? She was genuinely happy to have another child, knowing that in a few years Dean wouldn't have that lonely look in his eyes, once Sam grew old enough to play with his brother, but at the same time she felt trepidation for the coming years. She shakes her head though, to clear the unwanted thoughts.

She looks back down at Sam, seeing his eyes slowly open. She smiles to him, her eyes lighting up with affection at the little bundle her arms. Sam smiles back.

.::~*++*~::.

This is the day Mary Winchester burns.

.::~*++*~::.

A child lies quietly, sleeping peacefully in his cot. His mobile twinkling delicately above him weaves a soft melody that lulls him in his dream.

But the boy is not alone.

A man looks down upon him from the side, assessing, analyzing the boy in his easy slumber. The man nods his head once, happy with what he sees; the child is perfect.

He removes a small pocket knife from the inside of his baggy jacket, the blade glinting as it catches a lost ray from the nightlight in the corner. A smile plays out on the man's lips as he takes the blade and digs it into his palm, carving a scarlet line there. He cups his hand to prevent any of the precious liquid from escaping, not noticing the sharp pang of pain there.

He leans over the crib carefully and opens his palm directly above the boy's slightly open mouth as he inhales and exhales delicately. Red drops drip into the boy's mouth, unbeknownst to him. When the trickle of red thins, the man tenses his hand more, squeezes its wrist with the other hand in order to expel more of the dark substance.

Suddenly, he hears, senses, someone behind him. His shoulders tense and he stands rigid, not moving a single joint lest the person become aware of what he's planning. _A shame_, he thinks regretfully. A few more moments and he would've been gone, no one being the wiser of what had taken place in the small nursery of Sam Winchester.

But instead of the person behind him making a move towards him, he feels them depart. Before he can react, he realizes they're already gone.

A few more moments is all he needs to finish the task. A few more minutes and he'll have fed the child enough demon blood to instill power into the child but not enough to allow the boy to be able to overtake another demon in the same league as the man standing beside Sam now.

He prepares again, but suddenly the being from before is back. He senses them try to move behind him, and knows that they'll be stupid enough to try to attack.

As if pulled by an invisible string, the person soon finds them self pinned to the ceiling like a mere rag doll, dead before even making contact with the cracked plaster above.

The man, irritated beyond measure at being interrupted, takes the knife that had been on the crib's side table and flings it upward, catching the midsection of the person above with perfect aim.

The man dispels a few more drops of his own blood, not realizing he's giving the child far too much, before disappearing with the flickers of the light bulbs.

But even after he leaves, the unfortunate soul to have disrupted him continues to hang above her son's crib. Eyes open in horror, shock, fear.

After he leaves, the boy's father comes in, the son bringing a smile to his face.

After he leaves, the woman's blood drips down upon her unsuspecting husband; at first only in small drops but soon in rivets of blood that will forever stain and taint her husband's memory.

After he leaves, a fire begins around the woman, engulfing her, the room, and anything in its path. Almost the child too, but no, the man is fortunate enough that his handy work is saved by the woman's other fearless little boy.

The man doesn't realize, however, that he didn't just leave behind a mother to burn; didn't just leave a husband in pain; didn't just leave a little boy with a dangerous amount of demon blood in him. The man doesn't realize the most important thing he left behind was the one thing he never had the chance to touch, to taint.

The one who would kill him.

.::~*++*~::.

This is the day John Winchester breaks.

.::~*++*~::.

The day is calm, a crisp wind billowing softly, bringing with it the scent of freshly bloomed flowers and the sea; harbingers of spring. Many come outside to enjoy the peaceful day.

But not the Winchester boys.

One boy sits quietly in a motel room, looking at pictures of beautiful buildings and flowers and objects and trees and so many other things. He finds immense pleasure reading the book, a dictionary according to his father, but Sam, the boy, doesn't understand the nerdy implications of that.

Little Sam Winchester is safe.

Dean Winchester, his big, strong brother on the other hand, isn't.

Dean and his father are standing face to face in a deserted area of the woods, not far from the motel where Sam resides. Both pant heavily from exertion, but neither will admit that they're tired, weak, in need of a break. One refuses out of pride, the other out of fear.

John Winchester begins again, lunging at the boy quickly, attacking him with squared fists and a set jaw. Dean, being smaller, quickly side steps the attack. But instead of moving forward for a punch of his own, he takes a defensive stance, bracing himself quickly for another lunge.

It comes just as expected but not with the force Dean had been counting on. He reels backwards at the force of the punch that lands on his face, its sheer force driving him backwards.

He has a fleeting thought of a bruise that will no doubt form by tomorrow, but before he can worry about why his father had been so careless that time about throwing a punch at Dean's face when he was normally so careful about that, not wanting to draw attention of that kind of behavior from those kind of people, another blow lands on Dean's arm, then his chest.

After another jab in his gut that lands Dean on the ground gasping for breath, tears forming in his eyes, his father finally relents.

"Come on Dean! Get up. This ain't no time to be grazing about scratched knees." Any other eight-year old who had been spoken to in such a way would probably have answered back with indignation or cries of pain. Dean just bit his lip, drawing more blood from his face, as he grunted from the exertion of standing up. No words of encouragement followed though, nothing to let Dean know that his pain was sympathized, that he could expect a well-done for once again fighting through the pain.

John stares at his little soldier as Dean's face contorts into a grimace, a scowl, and finally a look of stubborn determination. But instead of feeling a father's pride, feeling pangs of emotion of horror at seeing the bloody mess in front of him that is his son, _John's doing_, instead he feels disappointment; feels a run of almost hysteria course through himself. Dean isn't ready yet for this kind of combat, the kind of training most boys learn at 18, 19, 20 years of age in the army. John doesn't think about the fact that Dean _shouldn't_ be ready at the tender age of eight. When Dean is learning combat and how to melt silver objects into bullets, how to shoot a rifle, use a knife, other boys his age are playing catch with a football in the backyard with their dad, running around frivolously with friends, going to the movies, complaining about girls having cooties. They're not learning about angry spirits, demonic possessions, poltergeists. They're not practicing ancient Latin or driving around in the evenings with their dad in a car with a trunk full of rifles and blades and holy water.

Dean doesn't know that.

John doesn't care.

The disappointment though, _that_ John knows intimately. It spikes emotion in his chest that causes him to lash out at Dean further, pushing him, pummeling him. Some of the blows Dean blocks, others are too fast or too strong and those Dean lets go. _Battle scars_ as John calls them afterwards when Dean comes out of the motel room's bathroom after patching up the scratches, icing the bruises, and suturing the bleeding cuts.

In John's eyes, the boy in front of him trying desperately to please his father is nothing but a failure at the moment. If he couldn't even handle a little hand to hand combat, how was he ever going to handle the demons and werewolves and vampires and other sons of bitches of the night or the Yellow Eyed Demon? How many times had they done this? Why couldn't Dean _get_ it yet? Eight years old, that's why.

_Eight years old._

.::~*++*~::.

This is the day Dean Winchester heads to Stanford.

.::~*++*~::.

Dean Winchester, no longer the eight year old boy, sat in his car, a rare black 1967 Chevy Impala…waiting.

He'd been sitting in his car for the past 2 hours, driving aimlessly in Palo Alto, the current residence of one Sam Winchester.

Dean had no idea why, but he realizes after passing the Citgo gas station for the fourth time that he's stalling. But why he's prolonging whatever it is he's putting off is a question he has no answer to. He feels ridiculous for wasting his gas and driving aimlessly, as though he, Dean-freakin'-Winchester, was scared, or godforbid, _nervous_, about something. Which is absolutely _ridiculous_.

Because Dean Winchester does not do scared or nervous.

And he definitely doesn't waste things, especially not gas or mileage on his baby.

With that set in mind, Dean steers his way back to the main campus of Stanford University. The street he parks in is right across from a pleasant courtyard with students armed with books and laptops and bags sitting on benches or sitting in the grass or making out underneath a tall canopy of trees.

Dean gets out of his car and sighs heavily as he leans against his door. This trip should really be very quick. Just stalk around a bit, find Sam, see that he's still breathing, and get out. Right. Simple. Easy. Quick.

Dean pushes away from the door with heave and crosses the street to the courtyard. He sees a group of students walking with their arms full of books and figures they must be going to some hall judging by the direction in which they're headed. Making a quick decision, he follows them and almost sends a thank you to whatever higher power there is that they lead him to the Stanford library.

Dean's checked on Sam 3 times already before this trip and all those times, he's always seen Sam walk out of the library.

Dean parks himself on a bench not far from the main entrance and decides to wait for maybe a half hour or so before heading in to see if Sam's in there. If not, Dean'll just have to think of someplace else his brother could be hiding in, but Dean really just hopes his Sam's in the library so that Dean can leave and get back to hunting the poltergeist he was in the middle of researching before Dad had called and asked him to check up on Sam.

He sits for about thirty-five minutes when he suddenly sees the doors open to the library and out walks Sam, predictable as usual.

But Sam's not alone.

Dean gets up and walks casually behind the trees and behind other students as he follows Sam and whoever it is walking beside him. It's just like stalking some son of a bitch on a hunt, except this time it's just Sam.

Dean's in a somewhat hunting mode; he walks with a stealth that may not look like anything except grace to the people around him, but he knows if you were to mute out the whole world except for him and try listen to his footsteps, you'd hardly hear anything.

He stays far enough back to see Sam and his friend but there's no chance of Sam spotting him.

They walk this way for about ten minutes before Sam and his friend stop in front of a large ornate building, which Dean assumes is Sam's dorm. Dean quickly leans against the side of street pole, looking if anything a bit shady, but can't really find it in himself to care. He's not really sure why he's still following Sam, Dean's job is done, but for some reason he can't make himself go back to the Impala and leave.

He watches as Sam and his friend talk for a bit. Sam suddenly throws his head back, his booming laugh ringing in Dean's ears even though they're so far apart.

Sam's friend must have laughed too. But Dean's not really paying attention, because in the next moment, Sam and his friend are wrapped in an embrace that's tight, not quite intimate, but definitely comfortable.

Dean stares, slightly slack jawed, an unrecognizable emotion welling in his chest. They pull away and Sam's friend walks away, doesn't go inside, while Sam does. The doors close behind Sam, hiding him away from the world again.

But even after Sam disappears, Dean's still standing there against the pole.

He's wondering, thinking, but not understanding. The sight of Sam so carefree, so happy…Why couldn't Sam have ever been that way around Dean? Sixteen years Dean spent, looking out for Sam, always putting _Sam_ first when they were in trouble; always giving in to _Sam's_ demands when he wanted the last cookie or the last of the Lucky Charms; always taking the blame when _Sam_ did something stupid and in return getting the blunt end of Dad's anger, taking _Sam's_ punishment with a clenched jaw.

His whole life had been spent catered to Sam. Dean loved Sam, no one could dispute that, but how was it…How was it that Dean had selflessly spent his whole life doing whatever it was he could do, and yet here he was…Not miserable, but definitely far from happy. There was fulfillment, sure, and he was content after every completed job. But not happy like the way Sam just showcased. Dean didn't have friends, aside from the occasional other hunter he teamed up with.

The only time he was ever close to other people was when he would fuck some girl in his motel room or in a back alleyway or the bathroom of some rundown bar. He didn't have anyone to hug so carefreely. Granted, his fucked up life had wiped away any chance of comfort in intimacy but that's not the point. Sam never did what he was told to do unless he was pushed or threatened or sometimes even bribed to do it. He never complacently just followed Dad's orders, always had to question them first. But Dean…Dean did everything, _everything_, right down to the last letter.

So why did Sam get to be happy, when he wasn't?

.::~*++*~::.

This is the day a deal is made.

.::~*++*~::.

Thinking things through had always been Sam's end of expertise. Sam was the one who had always had a plan before doing anything, and then a backup plan for the plan and sometimes, a backup for his backup.

Dean was often called impulsive, instinctual. Not always the best quality when you were a hunter, but he never hesitated and that's what counted.

So the night he makes a deal with the devil's minion to bring back Sam, some would say it was outrageous. Stupid. Impulsive. But that's the way Dean's always been.

Afterwards, after Sam's back and safe and _warm_, afterwards when Dean is lying in bed with Sam snoring safely in his bed beside him, Dean still doesn't regret his decision.

Dean once asked himself, a few years before going on the road with Sam, why Sam got to be happy when Dean himself wasn't. And in that moment when Dean saw the life come back into his dead brother's body, when Sam took his breath, when Sam blinked his owlish eyes up at Dean, Dean finally got his answer.

Because Sam was worth it.

Dean's done a lot of good things in his life. Saved a lot of people too. But Dean's never loved someone, trusted someone, the way Sam does. Sam gets to be happy because he's not afraid of pain. Sam isn't weak like Dean. Sam isn't tearing the skin off his back for every case like Dean, even the hopeless ones. Sam isn't blunt, uncaring, detached like Dean is. Sam doesn't see the world in black and white like Dean does.

Sam loves simply out of love when Dean can't. Dean's loved a whole of three people in his life: Dad, Mom, and Sam. But Sam...it's as though Sam loves, or at least feels compassion, for so many people.

Every night until the day the hellhounds come for Dean are, and will be, spent thinking about his coming death; thoughts that no one should ever be subjected to.

Sometimes in the dead of night, when everything is still, quiet, unheard and motionless, sometimes Dean wonders what it would be like to just end his misery himself. Why wait? Why wait for the dogs to drag him to hell with his flesh and blood dripping down the road, his screams piercing the air?

Sometimes when he's driving and begins to sink deeper into his misery, the depression and morbid thoughts of his death, sometimes Dean wonders. Wonders why he should have to die so soon. True pain, he realized one night, was not the knowledge of facing your inevitable mortality; true fear is facing the _avoidable_ mortality. A smoker doesn't want to think about death by lung cancer. A soldier doesn't want to think about death by combat. A hunter doesn't want to think about death by rifle shot.

Dean doesn't want to think about death by…_sacrifice_; doesn't want to think about dying at all, because the truth is, Dean doesn't want to die. He may put up a façade of pure calm and acceptance, but the real truth is…he _is_ afraid to die.

But even now, even now when he knows it's coming, knows he's got a one way ticket to Hell, Dean still tries to be noble. There's no nobility in martyrdom, but Dean can't help but try to _not_ be selfish.

Dean never asks himself why he did it; never wonders if it was worth it; never hopes that there might be a way out and that Sam'll find it. He doesn't question if maybe Sam can really figure it out because he doesn't want hope. He doesn't want to think there might be a chance of escape. He'll never truly accept that he's dying, but he can…deal with it.

Dean can _deal_ with the _deal_.

.::~*++*~::.

This is the day a demon is eliminated.

.::~*++*~::.

Was it worth it? Finally ridding the world of the Yellow Eyed Demon for the price of opening a gate to hell and releasing hundreds of demons in return?

Yes.

.::~*++*~::.

This is the day Dean Winchester dies.

.::~*++*~::.

And on this day, a girl named Cassie, while driving home with her fiancé, stops laughing abruptly at a joke he's just told and thinks about someone she's tried to forget for three years. She doesn't notice as her fiancé asks if she's alright and what's wrong? because she's caught up in remembering the first boy who ever made her truly _feel_, the first, and if she's honest _only_, person she's ever truly loved.

This is the day Dean Winchester dies, and on this day, somewhere in the world a flight attendant named Amanda Walker, is reminded of a time three years before when she met a man who had been terrified of flying and yet had come on board in order to somehow save everyone on the flight. She thinks about him again, sees his face vividly in her mind as the plane she currently is on encounters some turbulence.

This is the day Dean Winchester dies, and on this day, a prison warden named Deacon somehow finds himself thinking about the Winchester boys, the ones who saved his county detention center the year before.

This is the day Dean Winchester dies, and on this day, 63 women, some workers in diners, some yoga instructors, hookers, gas station employees, strippers, actresses and others, for some reason are suddenly thinking about that one night stand they had years, months, weeks ago, and the incredible guy who had pounded into them relentlessly; giving them one of the best fucks of their life.

This is the day Dean Winchester dies, and on this day someone loses their friend.

This is the day Dean Winchester dies, and on this day someone else loses their lover.

This is the day Dean Winchester dies, and on this day a boy loses his brother.

This is the day Dean Winchester dies, and on this day, the world loses a savior.

A hunter.

A mentor.

A good guy.

This is the day Dean Winchester dies and on this day, hundreds of people think about him without knowing why.

This is the day Dean Winchester _dies_.

.::~*++*~::.

This is the day the world moves on.

.::~*++*~::.


End file.
